


your force to break blow burn and make me new

by consumptive_sphinx



Series: that i should rise and you should not [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Catholicism, M/M, Masochism, Self-Harm, the specific intersection of religious penance and self-harm and masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: As if unconsciously Mordred digs his fingernails into his right forearm and his wrist, where dark blue veins stand out against skin that looks almost bloodless; his face doesn’t change, doesn’t move. “Come in,” Galahad says before he can think twice about it, and Mordred does, shuts the door behind him.“Are you —”“No, I’m not sure. Sit down.” Mordred does.--or: Mordred has far too many feelings and doesn’t know what else to do with them.
Relationships: Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian)
Series: that i should rise and you should not [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890229
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	your force to break blow burn and make me new

In the middle of the day there’s a knock on Galahad’s door; when he opens it it’s Mordred, shivering despite the warmth of summer.

“Are you,” he begins, and doesn’t finish, because Mordred obviously isn’t alright; his hands are shaking, his face taut. “Can I help you?” he tries.

“I need you,” Mordred says, voice even shakier than his hands, “to beat the noise out of my head.”

Galahad just stares at him, his desperate face and trembling body.  _ Why, _ he could say, or  _ as penance for what, _ or  _ that’s a terrible idea, _ or  _ are you sure that’s going to help. _

What he says instead is “I don’t think I’m the best person for this.”

“I can’t —” and Mordred stops. Breathes. He's shaking harder, now, somehow, his breathing uneven. “I don’t — Agravaine won’t do it and I don't have anyone else to ask.” Anyone else he trusts enough to ask, Galahad guesses he probably means. “— I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I can figure something else out, it’s fine, I’ll be fine.”

As if unconsciously Mordred digs his fingernails into his right forearm and his wrist, where dark blue veins stand out against skin that looks almost bloodless; his face doesn’t change, doesn’t move. “Come in,” Galahad says before he can think twice about it, and Mordred does, shuts the door behind him.

“Are you —”

“No, I’m not sure. Sit down.” Mordred does. Every movement he makes is harsh and jerky. “Are you?”

A sharp nod. Mordred’s grip on his own wrist tightens. “Please.”

Galahad doesn’t understand why it is that Mordred wants this from him. Mordred’s whole frame is still shaking; his eyes are squeezed tightly closed. “Tell me what this is about.”

“It  _ hurts,” _ Mordred says eloquently. “And it — drives out the worst parts of me. So I can live with the rest.”

_ Yes, but why me, _ Galahad thinks; he’s seen Mordred with whip marks on his back during Lent, has seen the bruises that don’t seem to get a chance to fade from his back and legs before they’re replaced. (He isn’t sure that he’s ever seen Mordred take Communion, but he’ll consider what that might mean later.)  _ Why not with a discipline or a shirt of hair, I understand your predilection for pain even if I don’t share it but why me, why here. _ “And you’re here and not in the chapel.”

Mordred bites down on his lip and keeps his teeth there for a moment, two, before he says “I promised my brother I wouldn’t try to handle it myself anymore.”

“Ah,” Galahad says, because he doesn’t know what else there is for him to say. Mordred folds inward on himself, curling up like a poked fern.

When the first blow lands Mordred  _ moans, _ tilts his head backwards as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. Galahad pushes him back and hits him again, listens to the way he gasps and watches how he leans forward into Galahad’s hands.

“Why me?” Galahad’s fist slams into Mordred’s chest. “Why not wear a cilice like my father does, or ask someone who  _ likes _ fighting, or,” and there is no ending to that sentence, only the dull thud as skin hits skin.

Mordred starts to answer but interrupts himself by moaning, lets his head fall back. “I  _ did _ — but Agravaine —  _ ah _ — wanted me to go out to the training yard when I got like this — I think he was worried I’d hit a vein, or hurt myself in a way I couldn’t fix, if I kept dealing with it on my own, but —  _ please _ — at this point I don’t think I can, hold a sword, without,  _ oh,  _ without everyone, being able, to tell, that something’s wrong —”

Given how shaky he was when he asked that probably isn’t wrong. Galahad doesn’t let up; Mordred leans into every impact, lets his eyes flutter closed between hits and snap open when Galahad hits him again.

“You must have waited a while for it to get this bad.” It isn’t a question; it isn’t an accusation; it might be a question, actually, if he looks at it right.

“Didn’t want to —  _ oh, _ didn’t want to ask you to —” and Mordred swallows, hard. Galahad stops, lets him catch his breath and put his words together. It takes a moment, Mordred’s breath coming wet and ragged, before he manages to say, “Didn’t want to ask you to. Deal with it. Touch me when I’m — like I was. Whichever, either, both.”

It seems faintly absurd; whatever they might whisper when they don’t think Galahad will hear or don’t think Percival will repeat if he asks, Galahad isn’t going to be tainted by Mordred’s touch. “You aren’t going to stain me.”

“I  _ wish _ I could stain you.” Mordred opens his eyes. “Maybe you’d manage to live for yourself for once in your life. No, I just mean — why would anyone  _ want _ to?”

Galahad looks down at him, at where a bruise is starting to show at the edge of his tunic (there must be more already bloomed red and purple under the fabric where no one can see them, and the thought is strangely appealing for reasons he’s not sure he understands) and at the still-harsh rise and fall of his chest and shoulders and at the way Mordred’s whole body is still angled towards him. Mordred isn’t trembling anymore, and his breath is harsh but his face is nearly peaceful.

“Next time come here before you’re shaking with it,” he says, and leans down enough to collect Mordred’s warm body into his arms and pull him upright, holds him close.

For a few seconds Mordred is pliant, unresisting as a cloth doll, and then he clings to Galahad so tight it makes his ribs ache and buries his face in Galahad’s shoulder; Mordred might be crying or he might just still not be able to breathe evenly but either way his shoulders hitch.

“Don’t say things like that,” Mordred says into his neck, so quietly Galahad almost doesn’t hear. “I’ll be at your door nearly every night if you aren’t careful.”

“And would that be so bad?”

Galahad can’t see Mordred smile but he can feel it. “No,” he says. “I suppose it wouldn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you  
> As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;  
> That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend  
>  **Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.**
> 
> \-- John Donne; _Holy Sonnets: Batter my heart, three-person’d God_


End file.
